


Surveillance

by Ylevihs



Series: How Not to Fall [12]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Implied past torture, M/M, Retribution Spoilers, canon typical self loathing, farm headcannons, unsubtle references to naked and afraid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 12:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18778711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylevihs/pseuds/Ylevihs
Summary: Richard's not a fan of being watched.





	Surveillance

**Author's Note:**

> Someone over on Tumblr asked if we really have the kinds of commercials I talk about in this fic in the USA and like. Yeah. We very much do.

Focus on the TV show.

Focus on the TV show.

Right arm on the arm rest, elbow bent, hand at his chin. Resting against the knuckles. Don’t move it. Right ankle weighing down on his left knee. Left wrist over right ankle. Left arm straight out. Do the hokey-pokey and focus on the Godzilla-fighting-mothra TV show. 

Two pretty thirty somethings were stripped down naked in the wilderness of…somewhere. Central America maybe. Ah, the helpful little pop-up on the show’s info bar revealed it to be Panama. And crying at each other about mosquitoes and snakes and how they didn’t think it would be so hard to starve and shiver and kill things with their bare hands. Watch them, don’t think about being watched. Always being watched. Every second of every day being watched and monitored and recorded and. They couldn’t start a fire because the wood was too wet. 

Or something.

Focus. Don’t let the knee start to bounce. Don’t let the mouth start chewing on fingernails. Don’t squirm. Twitchy Richie, being watched, just beyond his line of sight always watching and muttering and taking notes and making comparisons calculations clinical cold dead eyed not. 

Not like this.

Don’t think about that. Focus on this. Daniel’s TV. On Daniel’s couch. In Daniel’s apartment.

Focus. 

“Still doing okay?” and it was Daniel’s voice, barely making it over the volume of the commercial. He sounded distracted, a mile in the air while Richard’s stomach kept trying to drop out of his body and move to Australia. 

Not in the slightest.

“Yeah,” don’t breath too heavily. Don’t let ‘em see ya sweat. No, really, don’t. They’ll drop the temperature again. 

Daniel made a noise. It said, politely, that that answer was clearly bullshit, but if Richard wasn’t going to say uncle he wouldn’t force it. Trusted Richard not to push himself too hard. A weird feeling, that trust. It insinuated itself somewhere between Richard’s kidneys like a threat. Like a kiss. Both. 

A commercial came on for a prescription medication; the side effects seemed to be worse than anything the drug was meant to help treat, but maybe that was just a matter of perspective. The drug treated headaches—it could cause nausea, dry eye, ringing in the ears, bloody noses and, the commercial assured only in rare and temporary cases, loss of vision. The calm female voice over urged people interested to talk to their doctor’s about whether the new drug was right for his mouth was a little wider than that.

Focus on the television. 

Don’t shift around so much. Stay still so they could get their readings and get the angles and lines smooth and keep the IV from tugging against the flesh of his arm. Richard rolled his wrist just for the feel of it, chasing away the cobwebs in his joints, before setting it back down on his ankle.

No soft restraints hindering the movement. Nothing holding him down, pinning him still. Besides Daniel’s eyes. 

The next commercial showed two snappily dressed young men from some law firm, informing the viewer that the drug they’d just seen a commercial for could cause permanent blindness, uncontrollable internal bleeding, brain cancer or even death, and if they or a loved one had been effected by it, they could be entitled to his eyes catch the light so well like this. 

Focus on the should have done this in color instead. Would have been nice to show the variations in his hair but maybe next time he’d.  
Focus. On the. Television way that he’s sitting should make the muscles in his core more relaxed. 

He tried to let some of the tension out from his abdomen and failed. Had to keep the rigidity up or else he’d start wriggling all over the place. Stay still it’ll hurt less if you stay still won’t jostle the needles or the scalpels or the pencil scrit scrit scritching over the page. 

The show was back on, the stern voice over declaring that mosquito bites could transfer dengue fever before cutting to show the two bodies covered in bites. Red welts, the camera zooming in, getting a really good look at the breaks in the skin. Making records of the injuries and quiet comments about third stories and possible bone growth into the spinal cord and the impressive recovery in the elasticity of the skin and Richard had seen this episode before. The man would tap out around the thirty minute mark, leaving the woman alone. She would accidentally set the shelter on fire and kill a snake for food, vomit a lot and then go home, where the voice over would confirm that she’d contracted dengue fever but “didn’t regret an instant of her adventure” and hoped he has such long fingers. 

Ah, beans. He couldn’t keep this up; it felt his stomach was going to riot. 

“How’s it coming along?” and he was treated to a flash of himself, sitting in what now seemed like a ridiculous, forced position. Unnatural and stiff. Too many creases on his face, the corners of his lips and eyes. Scars on his neck, visible with the lower collar of his white undershirt. No sweater needed in Daniel’s apartment. Still enough to keep the tattoos out of sight. Boney knuckled, knobby kneed. Ungainly. Broad shouldered. Long strong arms and scarred firm hands. High cheekbones and long lashes. 

“Pretty well,” the voice was closer. Daniel got up from his chair and walked the few steps over to show Richard how the sketch was coming along. Sat beside him on the couch and leaned in, shoulders touching until he shifted and brought an arm around Richard, resting it on the back of the couch. Brought such a wave of warmth with him that Richard felt the body heat on the skin of the back of his neck. Another something to hook into. Not cold and not detached. Angling the sketchpad for Richard to get a better look and shifting close enough for Richard to smell the faint scent of his strawberry shampoo. Not the smell of industrial strength cleaners and metal. 

And. Oh.

Yeah, that was him. 

More or less. A better version of himself. Himself through Daniel’s thoughts, which was never going to be something he could get used to. Not nearly as pinched in and sharp angled as he knew himself to be. Stylized, not entirely realistic. Something almost maybe close to handso—. 

“Looks fine,” and cleared his throat, painfully aware of how tight the words sounded. Not quite the compliment he wanted to give but Daniel’s thoughts only rippled around him, gentle beats. “You’re very good,” at least that was the truth. Didn’t have to be evicted from his throat like some squatting drug addict. The lines were sketchy with implied movement; he looked thoughtful. Controlled. It was kind. 

“I have a good model,” Daniel returned, light and easy, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. The skin under his lips flushed with warmth. 

“Your model fidgets too much,” because it was easier to say that than to say the other thing. A smile, a shrug. 

“Worse things to deal with,” and Richard tried not to stiffen when he felt Daniel’s hand slip off the couch back and up into his hair, petting at the tangled mop affectionately. It took only a moment for him to relax into the feeling. Pleasant and with nothing to compare it to besides itself. No painful, half remembered, spider web threads to pull on. Just Daniel’s fingertips on his scalp and the light tugging of his hair. “I like drawing you,” and pins and needles erupted up and down his spine. 

Should he, “Thanks,” mumbled back. Stronger wingbeats now, settling around him. A dip of concern as to Richard’s opinion of the drawing followed by sharper thoughts, darting upwards. “I’m okay,”

“Are you?” and even though he saw it coming it still hit Richard like a fist to his throat. Forced it into tightening instinctively. Tightened the rest of him. Trying to make something that was always too noticeable into something curled in and small. The hand in his hair retreated, settling on his shoulder. Warm. Pulling him a little closer to Daniel’s body.   
“Better now,” the truth. “It’s still hard being watched,” It was slow progress telling Daniel about the variety of things the Farm had done to him. What he’d done at the Farm. He knew by then about why it was so hard for Richard to sit still. Why he didn’t like eyes on him even when he was fully clothed. 

The anxiety was starting to leech out of his system like water down a clogged drain. It was taking its time, but it was clearing up. Daniel was only looking at him now, not watching anymore and to Richard’s mind that made a world of difference. There was an apology starting somewhere in Daniel’s diaphragm. He tried to cut it off at the pass. The idea of Daniel ever apologizing to him crawled under his skin like a parasite—he wanted no part of it. And found, fluttering amongst the assorted butterflies, something to drive towards. “I guess you know what that’s like, in a way. There’s always a camera pointed at the Rangers,” 

The apology faded, the comparison enough to distract Daniel’s attention away. “No kidding,” the hand on Richard’s shoulder started to stroke its thumb in small circles. “It gets a little weird seeing yourself plastered all over the gossip columns,” Richard watched his own hand appear on Daniel’s knee. No reaction and something knitted itself together deep inside. 

“Especially when the gossip isn’t kind,” the Ranger’s PR team had upped their efforts on making Herald the new face of the Rangers. Doubled down on making him the picture perfect, twinkly and bright. Flawless. As inhuman as Richard, just in the other direction. If Daniel so much as blinked wrong the headline would read that he was cracking under the pressure. He’d coughed once during a recent press conference and half the gossip rags had gone off saying he was disrespecting Marshall Steel and gunning for the position. 

Daniel tossed the sketchpad onto the coffee table and ran his free hand up through his own hair. “Do you ever read them?” he asked. There was nothing behind the question. Nothing dangerous anyway. 

“No,” sometimes. Selfishly. Only if he thought they might mention him. For the most part the media had been content to believe that the weirdo seen hanging out with Herald was just a friend he volunteered with. A few had speculated on Richard’s identity; the one reporter that had come a little too close for comfort with their guesses had gotten caught up in a sex scandal involving a politician in San Fransisco. The more amusing theories said that Richard was some trust-fund wealthy recluse, tossing around the idea of putting some of his millions into sponsoring Herald. Apparently only the uber-rich could afford to look so shabby and remain so blasé about it. 

“Good,” Daniel said and his thoughts darted quickly, trying not to think about it. Richard resisted slipping it from him. Maybe it was private. He needed to work on respecting that boundary. Daniel’s mind tended to reveal more than enough information on his own anyway. A sigh. “They found out about Josh and,” every muscle fiber in Richard’s body went rigid. He couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop the question. 

“Which offices?” Daniel faltered, startled confusion swirling around him. Leaning away from Richard as though he’d snarled. Perhaps he had. “Which ones are talking about him, Daniel?” Richard repeated, reeling himself back in but consideration for boundaries shaking off. The names rose to the surface of Daniel’s mind, borne on soft, cautious wingtips. ‘El Diablo’s Advocate’ and ‘LD Inquiry’, huh? Spiraling. Hectic darting. Assuming and not wanting to assume the worst. He wasn’t entirely wrong. It would be pathetically easy for Mad Dog to. 

“It’s fine, Richie,” there was a hand on his forearm, firm. 

“Is it?” It wasn’t. Not entirely. Whatever they had said kept slipping and gliding out of Richard’s grasp but it had upset Daniel. The hurt and anger whipped across his thoughts like a foul wind. “I won’t do anything if you don’t want me to,” Richard was careful to shift the tone of his voice. But I could. If you wanted me to. Daniel’s thoughts rearranged themselves. Settling. 

“It has to be,” he said, “And no, I don’t want you to do anything,” no anger in the refusal but something else. He did want something done, but he didn’t. Knew that he shouldn’t and reigned it in. “It’s all bullshit anyway,” a heavier sigh. Something darker staining the sound. “They’re also talking about Chen and Ortega getting older,” Richard relaxed. That, at least, was nothing new. After a moment Daniel’s thoughts flew on to something else and he leaned back in. “Richard?” Something else. 

Something else. Something. 

Not good. Thoughts whizzing by, too quick to catch too quick to.

“Yeah?” tight dread gathered in his chest because he’d gotten a glimpse, the conversation turning to Ortega had brought up something in Daniel’s head and he was diving like a hawk that spotted a rabbit and. “Don’t,” the dive redirected. Daniel’s hand on him softening. A way out if he wanted it. 

“You know I’m right,”

He was. “You are,” his nerves felt rubbed raw. Richard’s knee started bouncing. “I still don’t know if I can,” the hand not on Daniel’s knee began rap tap tapping itself on the armrest. He put both feet on the ground. He knew Ortega would never forgive him. Knew it in the marrow deep way that he knew Daniel wouldn’t ever fully forgive him for beating him senseless. Knew that he didn’t deserve forgiveness from either of them. But the lies to Daniel had been fresh. Young and weak in the knees and easy to kill. 

Relatively easy.

The lies he’d told Ortega had been given a decade to grow and reach their full potential. They were mature. Grown. They’d started raising families. Ortega couldn’t forgive him, which Richard could live with. But could Ortega ever let him go? Let a known criminal, a known regene, escaped property, something inhuman and vile, that had lied to him for years, leave? He hadn’t been being dramatic when Daniel asked what he would do if were arrested. Sussed out. Exposed. The only way he was going back to the Farm was to tear it down to its foundations. Any other avenue meant dying, even if it was by his own hand. 

Did he trust Ortega not to sentence him to death? 

“I know you can,” it was meant to be supportive. The thing a good boyfriend said. “Will you?” 

Die? Sure, that was the easy part. He’d already done that once. “I’ll try,”


End file.
